Could be dangerous
by TinyMoons
Summary: From one addiction to another, Sherlock Holmes, the man who can deduce and conclude any situation within seconds, is at utter loss of his own emotions; his perception of somatic innervation is about to be rebuked. Thoroughly. Johnlock fiction. A mixture between John and Sherlock's POV. Rated: M for references to drug use, sexual content, violence and possible triggering themes.
1. Cold acquaintance

**Disclaimer**: The characters in this story belong to, and are create by, Sir Conan Doyle and wonderfully adapted by Moffat, Gatiss, and Vertue etc. I am not making any kind of profit from this, I just write for the fun and pleasure of it.

I do, however, own my imagination and I welcome you to it :)

Chapter one- Cold acquaintance.

The ebbing tide whelmed around his ankles, lapping up the residue of sand from his frozen feet as his breath suffused into the English sea air in shallow clouds. A deep guttural sigh accompanied this touch, boarding on a moan, suppressed somewhat by the blatant abruptness of its contact. The blasted, indignant sea: unforgiving yet offering absolution. Satisfyingly constraining yet potentially obliterating. But what's there to care for when it mediates as a short term solution to the apparent long-term problem?

His bowing head shakes such thoughts absent into the open air, undiluted ponderings and rash thinking won't play an advantage; especially since the 'problem' (as if it is constricted to _one_!) is in reference to a man (Ha! A Man? Teeth find bottom lip, biting down in concentration. Yes, for what's it worth, a man. In some respect. Bites harder: _be fair, _he urges his thoughts) and an exceptionally brilliant man at that.

Another shaky inward breath; cracking and unsteady although growing in confidence with the relative calm that forces its way, out of habitual experience and familiarity, around his body. That's right, _breathe_. In protest to the cold, John wrapped his arms a little tighter around his chest, offering the little protection to his fragile skin beneath his T-Shirt.

Not was much in the opportunity, or patience, in acquiring proper outdoor clothing, having prioritising putting a substantial amount of distance between himself and his flatmate. Now he felt regretful, a thought he didn't wish to reckon, however, as repenting his actions was something that was out of the question.

No. He regretted his trembling body; the short fretful vibrations proliferating his skin, slicing through its insulating layers like tiny pins but most certainly not the reason to which he stood before the desolate sandy expanse. The cold be damned, what's to fret about a little chilly weather?

He huffs, forcing his bare toes into the moistened sand concealing them in camouflage, head titled back now in full exposure to the dismal sky. What was the difference? He was acquainted with coldness. His eyes flutter closed and squeeze perfectly shut, his brows furrowing in deliberation.

_Ouch. _

That was a cruel thought, even in the circumstances. But it happened once too often. Too often did he find his friend bent double over their kitchen work-top, his long wiry fingers gripping its edges, in attempt to lessen the afflictive tremors working their way along his body. Too often he found him with his legs upon the settee and back lying flat against the floor, somewhat reposed, with his arms sprawled vulnerable above his head, bent at the elbows, exposing the rapid rise and fall of his chest which, much of the time, was bare.

It was just too much, John rendered. All of it was. The proceeding occurrences then worked like clockwork, a chain of events that ended in the inevitable deflation of lungs in a hopeless sigh. Palms raised in defiance:

_Game over, I'm done_, they read.

* * *

"Sherlock…" John almost whispered, afraid of both startling and upsetting his flatmate. "I thought we agreed on this, we agreed, Sherlock, that you would stop-"

"I have stopped," he retorted shortly from where he sat across the room. The _dimmed_ room as it was so often these days. The living room curtains were closed save from the one farthest the fireplace which aloud a small seam of light to trace the wooden floor. There was a soft light, probably emanating from a lamp, that flickered from somewhere within the kitchen.

"Not this you haven't."

His anger subsided however, as it often did, when he caught Sherlock tuck his trembling fingers between his knees in a sorry effort to hide his condition. Delicate vibrations travelled the length of his arms, pronouncing the tension in his muscles, as he contended for the state of restraint that he was accustomed to. However this only stressed the sharp jerking of his shoulders as if some unknown dynamistic force charged his motion. Even in fever Sherlock proved resilient, something John admired him greatly for; he felt the bubble in his chest burst.

Sherlock opted to crossing his arms instead. Yes, much better.

There he sat, the most brilliant man John had ever come to know and be recognised by, debilitated and despairing. His wide eyes staring reproachfully at him, which still maintained their hypnotic effect even within the gloom, as if waiting for the certain misgivings and nonsensical ramblings of his only friend John Watson. Only close friend that he would admit to in any case.

They were sure to come of course, the exclamations, John could feel the slight tingling radiating through his abdomen sending a sickly feeling to his stomach and to the place which felt suspiciously like his heart indicating such. But this time it felt different. He didn't feel angry. He didn't feel the urge to grab the taller man's shoulders and shake his abandoned sense into him that so accompanied such feelings in these times.

No. He felt tired and exasperated but most of all he felt disturbed. Driven into an emotional oblivion and disturbed.

Having given up on waiting for a response, John resigned to a heavy sigh and placed his shopping in the armchair opposite Sherlock neighbouring the fireplace to free his hands and pulled open some curtains. Sherlock hissed at the unwelcome light.

"Jesus, Sherlock, its broad daylight," he muttered irritably, mostly to himself.

"Helps me think."

"The dark?"

"Keeps the world out and my discernments convened, anything else?" he mused, quirking his brow disdainfully.

Oh, now John wouldn't mind strangling him exasperated or otherwise. Ignoring Sherlock's cheek he remarked,

"I bought some groceries saying as you I knew you couldn't be bothered to get any."

"Eh, boring-"

"Boring? Too boring for you is it, Sherlock? It's normal. _This_," he waved his arm in Sherlock's general direction, "this isn't normal."

Sherlock's eyes searched the other man's face hastily apparently alarmed by his friend's tone which wasn't what he was expecting at all, that much was plain on his face. It was almost shy and empty of its usual urgency. It was much less…_John_.

Surely John would be roused by seeing Sherlock like this rather than calm. No, calm wasn't it, definitely wasn't it. Much rather he was forlorn, distant and despondent. Anything but calm; unless calmness was the new hysteria. This, in turn, disturbed Sherlock himself; something in the air had shifted, something altered in their relationship in these recent moments that couldn't be rightly named.

John noticed that Sherlock was experiencing this same alteration that he felt in his heart; although he couldn't imagine where Sherlock could be feeling it.

"John, I-" he began, bringing his tenuous fingers to lightly trace the thick lashes bordering his now closed eyes. John noticed that he often did this when he was at loss of words which usually preceded his _attempted_ words of consolation.

"No, Sherlock, just don't. I don't want to hear it, anything you've got to say I don't want to hear it unless you can promise me that you'll get help because you obviously aren't accepting mine. So no, whatever it is you're going to say, leave it out."

He could feel Sherlock's penetrative gaze, could imagine his silenced mouth forming a scowl across his paling lips, he could almost _hear_ his flatmate's inner cognitions working overtime attempting to quantify the unmistakably subjective. He did not dare look at him however, not when he was all set on being annoyed with him. He didn't need the distraction of Sherlock's decidedly inscrutable eyes reaping havoc on his innards, making him lose focus on his point in an argument as they so often did.

No, it didn't seem fair to be observed under the microscope, laid bare where his emotions betrayed him, written so plainly and almost mercilessly on his face; scrutinised, analysed and even, but not so often, manipulated. Yes, he thought rightly to divert his focus elsewhere.

He was thankful enough, however, that instances that required a certain level of empathy and that the deciphering of emotions weren't exactly Sherlock's strongest point and he knew that since he entered 221B moments ago, Sherlock would be fretful of this lack of ability (that should be innately driven, no less).

John himself wasn't entirely sure what had changed within him but he almost regretted making the decision to ignore the other man; he reckoned he'd quite like watching him squirm in his ignorance. Oh how the tables would turn.

"John…" came his voice uncharacteristically small, "John?"

That did it. John could feel his protective walls crumbling. _So much for keeping it together_. He lifted his gaze and found eyes already transfixed on him; he knew immediately that this wasn't a clever move. Oh God how he weakened when those icy blues, flecked with greens and greys (and even browns), searched him, no doubt deducing him to the point of the other man's inadvertence; he felt transparent, like nothing went unseen.

Sherlock had brought his hands together, palms and fingers lightly touching, and were firmly pressed against his lips as if in prayer. They quivered slightly and John felt an overwhelming urge to reach out and grab them, take hold of them, anything to make them stop shaking.

_Stop shaking_.

"Sherlock, this isn't good for your health, for both of our health-"

"Both?" his voice rising an octave questioningly, confused.

"_Yes_," he groaned, rolling his eyes already fed-up. "I mean for God's sake Sherlock, I live here too, its hardly habitable. I don't mind the odd experiment or two but I don't want to keep finding fingers in the bloody margarine tubs to spread my toast with, I mean how can I _possibly_ bring anyone over?"

"Well then don't," he snapped, as if it were the only obvious solution. "Anyway, I thought you were staying with, who's this one, Jane? Or is it Sandra, or Melanie? Honestly John, I can't keep up."

John flushed to, what he assumed to be, a beaming pink; not that there was anything to smile about.

"Jenny, actually," he eventually choked out sounding wounded and a little too defensive. Why did he have to choke up now? Maybe wrapping his arms possessively around his chest as if is innards would just drop out onto the floor didn't help the whole I-don't-give-a-toss image either. God that would satisfy the arrogant git.

"Plus if you cared to notice I arrived back yesterday evening, if you weren't so self obsessed maybe you'd notice that I'm back a little earlier than what I intended," he huffed. "But I suppose you'd have no idea why that may be, hmm?"

Sherlock just continued to stare at him curiously. It was hopeless. John shrugged and was about to lift the carrier bags into the kitchen when the slight turn of his head brought his attention suddenly to a small glassy apparatus, cushioned clumsily between an untidy pile of newspapers as if hastily shoved there upon his arrival only now to be blatantly exposed by the new existing light; a foil in his flatmate's manoeuvre that he'd be kicking himself later for.

"What the bleeding hell is that doing there?" He realised he was shaking now too, which wasn't like him. He felt sick, as if someone had taken leave of his composure, all his sense of reason, his assurance. Why would Sherlock have a syringe? It was obvious: Sherlock had lied. The aching pang of betrayal riveted through him.

"You're still using," he whispered almost inaudible. It wasn't a question.

Sherlock eyes widened in alarm, his face clearly the depiction of anguish, convulsing into a grimace as if uncertain what to do with his often impassive expression. After a while he slowly stood and reached out towards him, fingers drawn out to be placed lightly on John's shoulders, his thumbs rotating slowly as if to soothe (_I wonder where he learned that?)._

Despite himself, John welcomed the touch, unconsciously leaning forward seeking more, wanting so much to be reassured, comforted, just _held_, weary of the one always doing the doctoring; he should throw him off in anger, dismiss him, but he couldn't, the pain in the other man's stricken eyes rendered it difficult.

"No," the taller man breathed, "I said I would stop and I did. It's in the past, it's over, gone." His grip on him tightened considerably. "It's in the past," he reaffirmed.

"But then what's all this doom and gloom about, all the shaking? And tell me, Sherlock, why you still have the damned thing in the flat and in a pile of bloody newspapers?" He was growing furious now. Any contact was bad contact. He needed to get out before he regretted what he was so disparate to say next.

"Oh never mind that, just tedious withdrawal symptoms, you already knew that John, you're a doctor" he muttered hurriedly, waving his hand dismissively as if such predicaments were trivial, unimportant.

"I was doing a bit of clearing out, I was merely moving it-"

"Oh don't make me laugh Sherlock, you never clear away anything, do I have "idiot" stamped to my forehead?" He could feel himself starting to sway slightly, his shoulders slackening under the pressure of Sherlock's touch. Pulling away, John took a step back, steadying himself; having Sherlock within such a close proximity wasn't good for clearing his head. Besides he wasn't much inclined in giving away his distress whenever he could help it, writhing under Sherlock wasn't among his priorities. Shuddering at that thought he cleared his throat and mentally shook his senses back into order.

"Stop looking at me like that," he suddenly snaps, the petulant reverberation in his voice surprising even himself. The effect on Sherlock was almost comical; if he wasn't so fed-up he might have giggled.

"Like what?" Sherlock replied dumbfounded, eyebrows raised in bewilderment, clearly thrown off by the conversations change of course.

"Like that," he grumbled accusingly, lifting his hand to Sherlock's face. "Like I might fall apart at any moment or something."

"John, come on-" he began, reaching out to take his hand.

"No," he scolded, moving away instantly as if he'd been shocked. Sherlock touching him would send him over the edge. "Don't you "come on" me, Sherlock."

John made to leave, forgetting his coat and barely shoving his feet into the right shoe, swearing under his breath in irritation.

"Get off me, Sherlock, I mean it-"

"John-"

"-and put the milk in the fridge before it goes sour."

And that was that. With a few more curses and slamming of doors later, John left 221B, leaving the stress behind him; the fret, the worry, the fever. Sherlock.

* * *

Now he wasn't quite sure if he liked the sensation, the feeling of being alone, being _left_ alone to his own thinking. He supposed he should return to the flat, to his home, to Sherlock. He wondered what he had done when he'd left; did he take his chair again and sit gazing into the openness his mind far away in thought? Or, John thought hopefully, did he worry; was he concerned for John and where he went?

John sighed. Somehow he didn't think so. The latter was something to be desired. Finding his shoes and slipping them painfully on his wet feet, he made his way back. Nothing ever changes there. Like a pivot, like clockwork, leading back to one final destination, the starting-point. As if wrapped in strings, tied and bound and helplessly strung, pulling him back like eager little fingers, greedy and relentless.

Like the strings of a violin. Like the strings of his heart. _Potentially obliterating_, indeed: Home is where the heart is.

* * *

**Author's note:**

I hope you liked it, tell me what you think! I know I didn't get into a case right away but I mean to, I honestly didn't think that this would be so long, but there you go.

Oh and I'll leave you to be the judge of whether or not the chapter title is in reference to the weather or if Sherlock deserves such an entitlement. Pathetic fallacy eat your heart out. I know what I choose.

And yes, any innuendo was intended.

I'll update shortly :)


	2. Two very different things

**Author's note:**

I apologise profusely for updating so late! There were circumstances that were out of my control but I won't bore you giving details. I hope to make this a weekly entry. Tell me what you think of it so far!

* * *

"Ah yes, Mr Holmes, do come in. Yes that's right, in through here if you please." The woman invited, fussing over the soaking fabric of Sherlock's coat, seemingly determined to pat it dry no matter how infeasible the task proved to be. He had barely eased the pressure from the doorbell before the ring sent her bustling out, grabbing his forearms tightly and pulling him towards her; rather much too forcefully to be considered friendly despite her obnoxiously chimerical intonation.

She smiled at him; lips, indelicately painted an offensive shade of red, peeled thin across bleached teeth. _Stained_ bleached teeth – faint smudges of that awful blush of cherry she insisted on wearing.

Her lipstick, obviously reapplied (twice) within moments before his arrival evidenced by its absurd application and subsequent staining, appeared flaked and faded around the edges of her mouth. Sherlock presumed that she had either eaten or drank something beforehand. Most likely drank; a dry tongue and loss of appetite indicates anxiety and her strong enthusiasm certainly accounted for nervousness.

Now, was it tea or coffee? Maybe something a little stronger.

"Don't mind your feet, that old mat isn't much use. We've got wooden floors it'll wash right off, not to worry Mr Holmes," she added finally, after pulling him further into the hallway, saving him from the cold, and shutting the door behind them with a clunk.

Well, Sherlock didn't feel as though he was_ saved_ from anything at all, not with this woman manhandling him. She'd taken to fiddling with his coat buttons, pulling on them intently to unfasten them and muttered under her breath – something to do with needing a good scrubbing.

The floorboards?

Sherlock couldn't think on such trivial details right now. Although being utterly repulsed by the woman's intrusion, of which she remained ignorant, he stole himself a quick glance of the interior, closely observing the character of the place and scrutinising everything that he laid his eyes on.

As Sherlock suspected, the inside of the house held an air of opulence as did the exterior. It was immense in both size and structure and just as formidable in conception despite the welcoming warmth radiating throughout the hallway. There was something deceptive about the place; like something remained hidden under the high freshly painted walls that longed to be exposed, like a protruding vein, anticipating the perforation of an unguarded surface, burning to be branded with some new discovery, craving to be marked by elusive deduction.

A perfect rendition, scored so plainly within the building's very foundations demanding to be played out on some melodious rhythm. A few short tweaks and fine tuning and it would be his. The most delectable accord. This was a home, a _family_ home which could only mean that it told many tales and no amount of paint or lipstick could ever interrupt such a discourse. He felt his chest heave with excitement. Oh this was going to be very interesting case.

Was this what John meant by _wanting more_? When things worked in unison instead of co-living in separation? Wasn't that what he said? Could he have meant the thrill of the chase, the elation of provoking the dull and amending it to something worth pursuing? Or was that just what Sherlock wanted, could he have meant something else entirely? He definitely mentioned something to do with ridding things from closets (John and his metaphors) and he certainly seemed on edge as if anticipating something. Sherlock had an inkling of what his friend's recent mannerisms entailed but _what_ they were exactly he could not tell. Unclear; not his area: need more data. May even get some when he returned to the flat (if he was lucky enough for John to be there).

Yes, John was more indistinct than usual. Far more _interesting_. But that was a different case altogether: The Inquisitive Case of John H. Watson. No that sounded vile…His friend always had given their cases curious names, of which fell prey to Sherlock's musings, but nothing as egocentric. That wasn't like John at all but then again, what exactly _was_ like John?

Sherlock reckoned that he could study him forever and still never truly come to an operative conclusion to what variables made up John Watson. It was like studying the constellations but not quite grasping their gravity, their significance, and so dismissing them as unimportant. They served no real purpose to him so he couldn't imagine why he should go to the trouble of exploring them further.

Ordinary people fill their heads with all kinds of nonsense, wasn't that what he told him? Did he take his _meaning_? Relationships are frivolous to him. No, he had to continue to be in control, not succumb to the gravitational pull, the confining bond, of something as dubious as placing your faith in something entirely impractical. Been there, done that: deleted it.

Sherlock did tell John that he appreciated it though, its beauty, even if he himself weren't entirely convinced to pursue any further investigation. But to appreciate and to love are two very different things. You could appreciate the night's sky without wanting to surrender yourself wholly in its orbit, to a notion as transcendent; and so he concluded that love and astrology were indeed both equal in their vanity. Well, to _Sherlock_ it was about as alien as anything could get, beyond anything that he ever aloud himself to be seduced by: Love, friendship, security…intimacy. Acknowledging their existence doesn't necessarily flag willingness in participation.

What was important was the work, something that he could thoroughly rely on. The facts, the observable, and the quantifiable: these were the things that ever truly mattered. Everything else is transport. He couldn't remember a time before he declared himself inseparable to such things. Of course not, he had deleted it, remember?

Truthfully, _forgotten _would be a more accurate descriptor. The mind is fickle and no matter how persistent someone is, memory can never truly be altered at will; of course there are techniques in its augmentation and distortion but that was a different story.

He wondered what Freud would conclude about his psyche. Although not considering the psychodynamic method as being truly scientific and therefore inept, he entertained the thought nonetheless having been impressed upon by a few psychoanalysts in his younger years. He shuddered not wishing to think on it.

His own mother subjecting him to their scrutiny and vigour. His own brother standing idle, eyes and mouth expressionless and hard, with arms pinned to his sides not flinching to the hands of his younger brother that reached so desperately towards his own.

He quickly learned not to seek reassurance in the form of any physical or emotional endeavouring just like his older brother who always was better at pretending than he was.

They had been inadequate and marvellously wrong, of course. They all had been, his mother and brother included. He had to hand it to them though; in all his years since, he had never yet experienced the displeasure of encountering anyone who has topped their level of idiocy. Well, maybe Anderson. What their diagnosis was he couldn't care to think, none of it was important, but now he thought that they'd say that he was _unconsciously motivated to forget_.

What? Childhood trauma? Oh how he'd make a delightful Freudian case study; exhibiting all kinds of defence mechanisms: intellectualisation, withdrawal, _isolation_.

He had since removed the inconvenience of companionship, ripped it clean from his being like an overused band-aid, disposing of its distractions and aversion. It wasn't necessary; it offered no real comfort to him. He could survive without it.

_Sherlock sees through everyone and everything in seconds. What's incredible though is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things._

The bloody solar system again! No, he didn't need to know, it was nonsense; he needn't fill his head with useless trivia. Why couldn't John see that? It was all aimless to him: the moon, the stars, constellations, relationships, intimacy. _To appreciate and to love are two very different things_ he found himself mentally inscribing the words into the convolutions of his brain.

But even yet, Sherlock couldn't bring himself to think that he and John were anything less than friends. Like the accursed stars, he remained a constant, unwavering companion that kindled a glow within the bleak obscurity of his room; although Sherlock didn't particularly want to make a habit of thinking on the aberrancy of his flatmate until the early hours of the morning even if his insomnia aloud little else of him. At times he even thought about awakening his companion and requesting his company although, upon thinking it over, John would surely consider it inappropriate even if Sherlock argued against him.

Of course it was harmless if not beneficial; John thought in unconventional ways and he really was, in many ways, his _conductor of light_ who brought upon a variance in the direction of their investigation even if not conceiving the weight of his own words and their deep effect upon Sherlock.

But then that meant that John was important to him and therefore, going by that impression, he did in fact need him, with a compelling urgency that, at times, beclouded his judgement. What was yet more crucial was that he knew John returned this sense of dependency. _Crucial_ because it meant that what could have been ignored and marked off as another incomprehensible part of the human condition had been given reason for further exploration. Since such feelings were mutual it meant something of significance to him as indeed did John. That's where the complication truly rested; Sherlock was never one to give up before he found the answers that he was looking for.

Sherlock, having been completely lost in thought, was brought back abruptly to the scene before him where the owner of an uneasy face drew breath sharply as if mortified at the expression that Sherlock must have presented her; he could not much help it having let his personal concerns shroud his work yet again. He huffed wordlessly and just about refrained himself from throwing his head back in frustration.

"Hmm? Sorry, Miss Sheldon, did you say something?"

"Only asked about kids, but I suspect you don't. I mean, not a man like you," she said. As soon as she noticed her error her eyes widened, clearly mortified "No! I mean, they're a handful and nothing a detective, a consulting detective would need…"

Deduction verified: his newest client was most certainly nervous, remarkably so, and one that had indulged in something quite stronger than coffee going by the unmistakable shot of wine perfumed on her breath; he wouldn't have minded her utter lack of concern for the phrase 'personal space' if she hadn't developed a habit of treading on his toes.

But Sherlock already wasn't listening and made no attempt to relieve her of her distress. Instead his eyes fell upon an unopened envelope sitting on a small chest of drawers aside the entry of the stairway; many of the letters there were already opened and lay unaccounted for. However, Sherlock's main subject of interest was of the abandoned article which addressed an _Aoife Fisher of 23 Brimsway Glen, __Finslark Road__, __London__._

"Mr Holmes," she interrupted once more "if you would be kind enough to follow me into a more amicable part of the house, I'll assist you in any way I can." Her voice had grown a lot clearer and formable. "When we're sitting comfortably, and only until then, may we trouble ourselves with this terrible affair." Miss Sheldon had redeemed herself somewhat and took upon her hostess duties once more with an air of misguided rectitude. Sherlock saw right through this façade immediately; this was going to be an exceptionally short visit.

He allowed himself to be lead into the living room and sat down laboured with the insistence of him doing so; he didn't like being told what to do but he thought he'd grin and bear it for now. Grin and bear it. If John were here he'd probably give him a nudge in the ribs or that shut-it-and-behave expression that seemed to grace the presence of Sherlock.

He wondered what John was doing and what Lestrade had wanted; he would have joined his friend himself if this particular invitation hadn't been so curious. Clients usually visited them but the letter she sent definitely aroused excitement in Sherlock which made it impossible to turn down.

"Right, what will it be, Mr Holmes, tea or coffee was it?" She smiled, flashing her teeth at him. "I'll even throw in some sandwiches. That dreadful weather has taken the life out of you; you're as white as a ghost!"

"I don't expect to be here for much longer. Just a few questions and I'll find myself on my way."

"Mr Holmes, it is a rather serious business! You've only just got here, how-"

"Oh I agree! But don't trouble in exerting yourself, time is of the essence!" He rocked forward in his chair now, it was all he could do not to stomp his foot down hard with impatience; that would surely earn him a huff or two from John he thought smugly despite himself.

"Just one or two questions, if I've deduced rightly, that's all I'll trouble you for," he continued, speaking slowly trying to quieten his enthusiasm.

"What, may I ask, do you think you've learned in such a short space of time?" She crossed her arms clearly offended, if not amused, by the impropriety of Sherlock's claim. "Do tell."

Picking up on her mulish adamancy and increasing contempt towards him, he drew a long breath hoping it would be enough to fuel the whirl of words already forming on his tongue.

"I know that your marriage got off to a rocky start in Ireland resulting in the abrupt move back to England shortly after the birth of your daughter, Aoife who is no older than 25, no younger than 20; being the approximate length of time you've been married of course. I know that you and your husband have had recent disagreements, leading to possible arguments about the missing person in question whom has been absent for more than the few days that was indicated in your letter. Rather, I care to think this young lady has been missing for months, Miss Sheldon, or I think I'm right in saying _Mrs_ Fisher."

"Mr Holmes-!" She started but he cut her off, holding up his hand to indicate that he wasn't finished and resumed his spiel.

"I know that this case has surprisingly a lot to do with family affairs and is much more complex than it first appears. It has somehow got to do with your husband and daughter. Now," He leaned in closer to where she sat in front of him, "Was I right in assuming that Aoife is your daughter?"

Mrs Fisher, who had brought her hand to the nape of her neck as if to support her weakening composure, simply stared at him wide eyed before uttering, "Yes…Yes she is, but how-?"

"I merely made on observation. There was a letter addressed to that name-"

"She has been staying here ever since Anna went missing. I insisted on her being here, any mother would offer…"

"Yes, as I suspected, it has indeed been months then. Aoife's been here long enough to change her mailing address, so since you've inadvertently admitted that much, let us move on shall we?" He tried not to look so pleased with himself but God it felt so good to finally work his mind on something; crap telly and board games just weren't the same.

"I first picked up on the Irish influence in your dialect, not heavily accented but just enough to suggest a move in the early years of adolescence, in the region of 11 or 12 years or so. That's where you meet your husband; you soon married, had a child named Aoife -Irish name, Irish spelt- much to the dismay of your new family-"

"How can you _possibly_ know that?" She halted her guest, her eyes sorely fixed on him; an expression of divided apprehension and interest.

"I'll admit that that was more of a hunch; why else would a newly wed young couple with their new baby desert their family at such a sensitive time to an area they do not know? It doesn't seem as though you or your husband are the kind of people to take such a leave lightly. However, I did consider the possibility that work may have been a factor; children are expensive and it is possible that there so happened to be a job going in the area that suited the bill."

"Then what changed your mind? You sounded quite sure that there was a family feud." Her voice was now just above a whisper, all her severity had dwindled and all that remained in its place was a child eagerly listening to a story that was made to entice.

"The fact you took off your wedding band and attempted to hide the fact that you're married in the first place; my initial clues were the clear indentation on your marital finger and the difference in second names of you and your daughter. My _definitive_ clue was the fact that you didn't deny having a husband or try to rectify the implication when I first presented it. You still aren't in fact. The situation almost begs for family not to be brought into question."

She didn't appear to be fully listening which lead Sherlock to believe that he deduced rightly; she heard this story before.

After a few moments silence she simply muttered, "You also said that we are having complications…arguments."

"Of course; it was you who wrote to me asking for my help. After all this time of keeping _something_ a secret you finally cracked, couldn't stand the pressure of having to go through with lying any longer. It's more than a matter of stolen sweets. So you both came to a compromise of you going to the police not to cause suspicion in case you're questioned for not reporting sooner as long as he's kept out of the picture. Obviously."

"Oh, Mr Holmes!" She suddenly cries out, taking hold of his forearms once again with some force. Sherlock had to peel her fingers off him before he was in danger of further bruising his already tender flesh. A spasm burned through him and he winced at the sensation suddenly feeling sick; it wasn't so much the invasion of the fragile stretch of skin beneath his clothing but for the memory of what his self medicating had done to John.

He couldn't seem to shake the image of his friend's usually pleasant features twist into something that Sherlock later determined was that of disappointment; a week had gone by since his syringe was discovered and he cursed his desire to violate his senses once more.

He reckoned he could handle all the anger that John could muster and give him. Although never _disappointment_.

"It sounds dreadfully awful when you put it that way!" she sobbed, reaching out to take hold of his hand instead. Instinctively, Sherlock moved away making himself unavailable.

"There's no other way to put it. A second question: were your daughter and Anna, to put it a way, _lovers_?"

She blinked incredulously at him, her jaw slackening in shock at the abruptness of the question. "They were indeed," she began, sounding stern. "I don't know how you've worked that one out or how you think it relates to her being missing-"

"It has everything to do with it. The amount of trouble a family would get into would most likely be for someone who is intimately close or potential family. Of course such sacrifices could be made for the love of your daughter regardless of her relation to the missing person, Anna, but somehow it doesn't quite fit. I'll need to do more investigating before I can be sure."

"Be sure of what?" She sounded almost too frightened to ask.

"Be sure that there is someone to find in the first instance. What if she's not missing, like your husband? But hidden."

"That is absolutely preposterous! I have never heard the like of it!"

Sherlock arched a brow. "Is it really?" He leaned forward, slowly, quietly deliberating his next train of thought.

"You brought me here sure in the knowledge that a secret would never be unfolded; that much is clear from the number of things that you've tried to hide thus far. Secure in this knowledge, you were so confident that you'd pull it off and so convinced your husband that this would be the right course of action." He paused, mulling over the thoughts accelerating around his mind.

His sudden yelp startles Mrs Fisher into a little leap, nearly toppling her of her chair.

"Oh, I see! You _were_ confident to invite me into your home because there is no one to find, is there?" He mentally prepared himself for the answer to his trick question, crossing all hypothetical fingers that she'd take the bait under her frenzy.

"Of course there is!" She's yelling now, almost hysterical with anxiety. "Someone is missing you silly man, why else would I bring you here?!"

"But not the person we're expecting!" With that he jumps gleefully up from his chair and smacks his hands together, already in prayer-like thinking mode. "You thought you'd lead us all astray like dogs following a wrong scent knowing the person who really is in need of help is long forgotten about."

He turned to her already tightening his scarf to leave and felt a sudden urge jump up and down excitedly like a child at Christmas. Mrs Fisher, not yet aware of her mistake, was stunned into silence and didn't flinch to show her guest out as he half hopped, half walked down the hall and opened the front door.

"Thank-you!" He yelled after her. "I'll keep in touch!" He smiled with delight at the prospect of this new case. Something invigorating at last.

Out in the fresh air he suddenly felt dizzy; his hands trembled slightly and he wasn't sure whether it was from the cold, elation, or other bodily protests he'd come to ignore as of recently.

Taking out his phone: 6 new messages. All from Mycroft.

Ignoring them he searched his contacts for the only person he was most anxious to get talking to. He needed to share the thrill he felt and what he'd just learned. Scrolling down he saw John's name and felt instantly uplifted.

* * *

**Author's note:**

I'm doing my very own case and I have to say it was fun coming up with it! I could write deductions all day.

I just couldn't resist using the solar system as a metaphor! I'm a sucker for them.

I'm Irish and couldn't resist adding that in there somewhere. You can tell a lot about someone by what they write, I think.

_Aoife _is an Irish name and is pronounced /Eefah/

The address I provided is completely fabricated! I made it up. _  
_

For those of you who don't know, this line_: "Sherlock sees through_ _everyone_ _and_ _everything_ _in_ _seconds._ _What's incredible though_ _is_ _how_ _spectacularly ignorant_ _he is about some_ _things"_ Is taken directly from the series.

I'll update shortly!_  
_


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